


winter, 1944

by upottery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, World War II, mentions of injuries and blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upottery/pseuds/upottery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had asked why they chose him for a medic, and they told him his hands were too gifted to kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter, 1944

**Author's Note:**

> this sprung from my love of wwii and the battle of the bulge (and AU's), i hope you guys enjoy!!!

Belgium could be beautiful. It has the potential; the parts of snow that are untouched look like glittering diamonds in what little sunshine there is. He appreciates nearly nothing these days, but he can still smile when his boot print leaves crystals in the ground. The only thing that holds the Ardennes back from being one of the most mesmerizing places he’s been during the war is the state of the trees. They are burst open from the shelling, shards of bark littered everywhere, and it makes Stiles think of the enormous redwoods back home, what he would feel if someone destroyed their magnificence. The dirt is a mottled bruise of muddy snow, branches, leaves, and the bark. And blood. He tries not to think about the contrast of red on white, one of the grotesque beauties of battle.

It’s his job to think of it, though. Lay his hands on soldiers in desperate moments, wrap bandages and stop bleeding and administer morphine. He went to basic training almost four years ago now; after he had learned to fire a weapon they told him he didn’t need it. He had asked why they chose him for a medic, and they told him his hands were too gifted to kill.

Three years in Europe and he’s had enough of wounded men. Too many pairs of eyes and lips that plead for mothers and wives. The light that drains from their faces as they bleed out. 

He shakes his head a couple times, turning back towards his foxhole to find someone to talk to so he doesn’t have to think. It’s his crutch in this forest; he’s been running his mouth the whole damn war just to distract his gaze from the red stains beneath his fingernails. Here, he hasn’t got the time, he darts between the front line and the HQs, calling for jeeps and tying tourniquets.

Night descends like fog, and soon he can’t see where the line is. Three years of days and nights, and yet it still terrifies him to know there’s another medic a few miles away, thinking the same as he is except in a foreign tongue. A German with compassion isn’t something he’s supposed to think is real. A German that is haunted with the horrors of endless death is a supposed to be a myth. Yet, Stiles can’t imagine anyone not feeling this way.

A hiss comes from the sky; he looks up to see a flare illuminating the dark and steels himself for the worst. The echoing shout of “Incoming!” has him running back towards the front, patting himself down for supplies and he almost loses his footing when the ground shakes beneath the first shells. The dirt flies in clods around him and he wants to hide, wants to listen to every fiber of his being that is willing him to crawl in a hole and cower. But he can’t. The wet, weak leather of his government-issued boots are still colliding with the snow, leaving bursting trees and slivers of their wooden skin in his wake. 

His exertion is worth it when he hears the call for him. An inhuman sound, distraught and angry and tangled, and Stiles understands. Stiles knows that man is asking himself why, why is he halfway across the world bleeding on frozen earth without a hand to hold or grandchildren to surround him. Stiles hopes while he runs that it won’t end here for that soldier.

When he finds the source, many men are surrounding a lieutenant with frantic and searching hands. “Stilinski, get over here.” The officer grits out, bright irises betraying his dirtied face. It’s Lieutenant Derek Hale, he knows. One of the last officers that has been with the company since its formation in the States. 

“Right, um-” Stiles blinks, all of his knowledge suddenly rushing back to him, numbers and words and plasma and morphine. “Where’s he hit?” He asks to no one in particular.

A scared corporal, Greenberg, he thinks, yells over the din, “Left thigh, I think a shell burst got him!”

Stiles reaches in his breast pocket for his precious, precious scissors and cuts open Lieutenant Hale’s uniform. There’s blood all over, caught in the coarse hair of his thigh, and Stiles tries to wipe it away to get a look at the shards with little success. Overhead, another flare whistles and light is brought back to him, glinting off the shards and he thanks whatever God is left in this miserable existence. 

He looks at Derek’s face when he says, “Get him warmed up.” And at his eyes when he says, “This is gonna hurt.” Stiles’ previous experiences with the Lieutenant should have alerted him to expect the eye roll he receives in return. The men around them are quick to respond, covering Derek in extra coats and patting his skin.

He brings his deft hands back down to Derek’s leg, pulling out the fragments as quickly as he can. Blood bubbles up in each of holes left behind. He breathes through his mouth and regrets it, because the smell is better than the metallic weight on his tongue. 

Above him, Derek is groaning and trying to hide it, as if anyone is judging him for feeling the probably incomprehensible pain. Stiles almost laughs, hysterical short breaths come out instead. It’s just so like the Lieutenant to have this impossible obligation to never feel pain.

Once Stiles gets all the shards out, he pulls an extra large bandage from his pack and pushes it down on the front of Derek’s thigh. He knots it several times around the front and pulls out a morphine syrette, pulling the cover off with his teeth.

He locks stares with Derek one more time, poising the needle above Derek’s opposite thigh. He swears that the Lieutenant mouths a “thank you” before he pierces the skin. A few seconds later and Derek’s mouth opens and he sighs, pain drifting away.

Stiles scoots back, shakes his head, blinks his eyes, notices the shelling is over, and turns to the same scared corporal to tell him to call for a jeep. Greenberg nods his acknowledgement and turns away for a moment.

He turns back to say to Stiles, “Lieutenant Hale is requesting that you travel with him back to the aid station.”

This time, Stiles genuinely laughs. It sounds inappropriate, but he can’t help but find humor in the way that morphine can even give Lieutenant Hale a kind heart.


End file.
